


The Choosing

by infinite_regress



Series: Lagradil Tales [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Romance, a little bit of a mystery but not much, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress
Summary: Clara is the one the Marquis wants as his bride





	The Choosing

Clara paused for a moment, and looked down at the long, red dress that her friend had swept her into.

“Marreia, are you sure about this?” The dress was figure hugging to say the least, and the low back and plunging V line neck exposed much more flesh than she was used to. And how was she supposed to dance in these high heels?

Clara stared at herself in the mirror. Something was out of kilter, a strangeness skitting just out of reach, buzzing like a mosquito inside her head. She tried to shake it off. It was just nerves. And who wouldn’t feel nerves in her place, tonight?

“Stop fretting. You look beautiful.”

“I don’t know. There’s something…”

Marreia took her arm, her long blue fingers gripped lightly about Clara’s wrist. “You are going to be fine,” the Telorian woman said. “Such an honour. Everyone knows he wants  _you.”_ Marreia slipped a feathered mask over Clara’s face, a brilliant blue bird, with delicate wings sprouting from the sides, and gems dripping like tears from the laced edges. “Even under this mask.”

Clara shook her head, just enough to make the gems jingle. Of course. The choosing. The Marquis would chose tonight. From the throngs of dancers, masks hiding their faces, who would snake along the winding streets towards the great square with a thousand lanterns strung from the trees, the Marquis would choose his bride. The tradition was to dance the street’s length, moving from partner to partner, until they reached the lantern-lit square, a tiny world of dancers and hypnotic music. She took a little comfort in the mask, as the dress left her feeling horribly exposed.

As Clara plunged into the crowd, she realised that she might have been masked, but she was not disguised. Most of the other revellers were passed hand over hand without a lull, but not her. Partners passed her over, glancing over their shoulders before they bowed politely and backed away. They knew the Marquis wanted Clara.

She drifted through the revelry alone.

Where was the Marquis? And why did she have that itch at the back of her mind, that she didn’t belong here? That danger lurked in the shadows.  _This is wrong._

Every citizen of Lagradil was on the streets for the festival, but somehow space opened around her and Clara danced always alone, following in Marriea’s wake as her friend laughed and danced towards the square. The Marquis would be there, Clara guessed, standing on the palace balcony watching wave after wave of dancers fill the square. If he chose her, well, no more sewing and cleaning for her. A life of riches, of leisure waited. So why did she feel so afraid? She knew why. The Marquis might be rich and powerful, but he wasn’t kind. He had the hands of a killer, Clara thought, the night they met. When was that? That night was fuzzy in her mind, distant. What choice did she have? Her friends and family were all delighted, imaging the riches Clara could bestow on them as the Marquis wife. All that was true, Clara could make many lives better. At the cost of her own.

She took a breath, and slowed her steps while Marriea went whirling ahead, the dancing, the kisses bestowed on rosy cheeks and curls of laughter, leaving Clara feeling more alone than ever.

Suddenly, someone took her elbow. The touch jarred her after her isolation, and thinking it must be the Marquis, she stiffened.

But no. The dancer wore a wolf’s mask of moulded leather that covered his face completely. The Marquis would never wear such a thing, Clara knew, so who was this, brave enough to dance with her when the Marquis soldiers kept their distance.

He was tall, so she had to tilt her head up to see his eyes, pale blue through the mask. As if some spell had been broken, she was part of the dancing crowd, spinning and reeling in these stranger’s arms. He moved her along, guiding her towards the edge of the crowd.

Who was this? She could feel his strength, belied by his tall, wiry frame, as he buoyed her along. He should have turned her loose, after a twirl or two, but he didn’t. His hands kept hold of hers, and there was something warm and familiar about his touch. They streamed through the living tide of dancers, and when he briefly let her go, she didn’t move away. It felt good to be finally dancing, her dress whirling in waves around her silver shoes, weightless and lovely. Clara lost sight of Marriea, but she didn’t care, although she  _should_  care, for her own sake and this tall stranger’s. The Maquis was unforgiving and proud. She frowned. How did she know that?

She pulled back slightly, the music buzzing in her head, her vision momentarily swimming.

“Why are you dancing with me?” she said, her voice thin against the cheering laughter of the crowd, and the merry fiddlers and the pounding drums.

“I have to save you,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

His accent was strange, lilting, soft, familiar but distant and vague. He bent towards her, his mask muzzle brushing her ear. In this closeness, there was an aura of warmth, comfort, a strange familiarity. The swell of the crowd pushed him closer to her, with an upsurge of piping as the sound of the musician’s grew closer. Trills like calling birds, a twanging lyre, the deep undulations of singers, and beneath it all, matching her heart beat, the drums urging the dance on. Clara’s head spun.

“Do I need saving?” Clara said. She looked around blearily. She’d lived her whole life in this village. There were her childhood friends. Her old school teacher, and the baker. She clutched her chest. “You’re confusing me!”

He pulled her behind a tree, and her heart began to race now. No sign of Marriea, and she could yell all she liked back here. No one would come for her. But she didn’t  _want_  to yell. Far from it. Something in this man’s cool touch felt so  _right._

“I’m not really a wolf,” he said, leaning closer, his hands on her shoulder. When he gently slipped her mask away, she didn’t protest, and neither did she move when he pressed his fingers to her face.  

“Clara,” he whispered. “Remember me.”

She stared at him, blankly.

"You can't see me. Please, just see me." His eyes begged her. She felt herself falling into his eyes, and she gasped, her heart fluttering. 

The world faded, greyness took over from the rich colours of the dancing crowd. He’d taken off his mask, and there was nothing but his blue, blue eyes, and his fingers on her skin, cool and delicate, and she heard a different song; a rocking tune played on an electric guitar, and a tank, and a blue box, and she was Clara Oswald, school teacher, time traveller, and what the hell was going on?

“Doctor?”

“Clara, thank god.” He looked down at her silver shoes with their dangerously high heels. “Can you run in those?”

Clara laughed the sweet laugh of relief, and embarrassment at being so roundly caught in the Marquis snare. The brute had tricked her into forgetting herself. Forgetting the Doctor. And it almost worked. She looked down at those dangerous shoes. She’d danced well enough in them. She could run in them, too.

“No problem,” she said, gripping his hand. “Thanks. For coming for me.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and leaned in so close it took her breath away. “Clara, I’ll always come for you,” he said. They clasped hands tightly, as tight as they ever had, and ran towards the TARDIS. Towards home.

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out to not be a one shot after all. See the linked stories "Clara and the Marquis" and "The Dark Forest" for more in this little adventure serise.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Dark Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470920) by [infinite_regress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress)




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